you will break (you will heal)
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Dean is still haunted by the war and tries to drown his demons with alcohol. His boyfriend's cousin understands a little too well.:: for Lo


_For my darling Lo, via one of the Secret Santa things I'm doing. Enjoy, bby._

_Word Count: 1560_

_A note on Max: Max Polkiss is an OC created by Lo and adopted by me. He appears in many of my Piers Polkiss fics._

_**Warnings: PTSD, alcoholism, brief mention of past drug use**_

* * *

Dean wakes in a cold sweat. He thinks that maybe he was screaming in his sleep because his throat is sore and raw. At least he didn't wake Piers up. Beside him, his boyfriend sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware that Dean is slowly but surely losing his bloody mind.

It's nightmares again. It's always the nightmares. The war ended two months ago, but it is still so fresh in his mind. More often than not, he sees Ted's kind face in his sleep, and it freezes his insides. That gentle smile always changes, always contorts into a mask of anguish, and there is nothing Dean can do to save him.

He sits upright, trembling as he wipes the sweat from his brow. His stomach twists itself into knots. At least he doesn't throw up this time. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Dean's fear and panic were so acute that he would often throw up within seconds after waking.

Sighing, he slumps forward. They say that he isn't broken, that he just has PTSD. Dean only knows that he _feels_ broken, like the smallest touch might make him shatter completely.

He climbs out of bed, still trembling from the aftereffects of the nightmare. At this point, he doesn't even remember what he saw when he closed his eyes. Was it Ted again? Was it Dirk, falling in the snow, a gash across his throat? Something else? Really, it doesn't matter. In the end, he still sees, still screams.

Piers is still asleep. Dean almost smiles. Sleep comes easier when he stays the night with his boyfriend, but even Piers cannot fix him. He slips out the door, carefully creeping down the hallway and into the kitchen.

One of the best things about Max Polkiss, aside from his delectable cookies, is that he always has a stash of fantastic alcohol. Then again, Dean thinks the alcohol could taste like piss, and he wouldn't care. Alcohol numbs the mind and makes it a little easier for him to forget how fucked up the world is. Sometimes, if he gets drunk enough, he can sleep through the night without hearing those awful screams or seeing the anguished faces of all the fallen.

He picks a bottle from the back. Vodka, half-empty. If it's stashed away and hidden behind a small collection other bottles, maybe Max won't notice.

It isn't that he isn't supposed to be drinking. He'll be legal in August, and Max has never minded them having a drink or two in the house, as long as they weren't going out and being drunk and reckless; Max is, after all, the cool cousin and guardian. But there's a difference between a few drinks to be sociable, and trying to drown the pain beneath a heavy layer of alcohol.

He unscrews the lid and presses the bottle to his lips. The clear liquid burns, but he welcomes it. It's a familiar fire, and maybe it will one day be enough to cleanse him, to make everything better again.

"I don't know how you can do that."

The voice behind him makes him freeze. Dean swallows the mouthful of vodka and lowers the bottle. It takes several seconds for him to remember how to move again. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns.

Max stands in the doorway, his dark curls messy and wild, and his eyes heavy. He offers Dean a sleepy smile. "Never could drink vodka without mixing it." He stretches his arms out, yawning. "I think I have some cranberry juice in the fridge, if you'd like."

Dean clears his throat, his cheeks flushing with heat from his guilt. Max must see the change in his expression; he softens, giving Dean a look that is something between pity and understanding.

"Not about tasting good, is it?" Max asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dean wants to laugh it off, to tell Max that he's wrong. Of course it's about the flavor. Why else would he be drinking? Nothing is wrong, and everything is perfectly fine.

Instead, he shakes his head. He can't bring himself to speak. Shame seems to make his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, leaving him mute.

Max doesn't look upset or angry. It's just another reason Dean likes him. He doesn't think he's ever heard Max raise his voice. With a sigh, Max sits at the kitchen table and gestures for Dean to join him. "Grab the moscato, if you don't mind," he says. "Red one. And a glass."

Dean does, awkwardly setting the vodka down in front of his seat before handing Max the wine and glass. He hesitates before taking a seat. Silence hangs between them, and Dean shifts restlessly. Does Max feel just as weird about this? The older man seems so calm and collected; then again, he's probably caught Piers trying to sneak alcohol in the middle of the night and is used to it.

"I had nightmares when my dad died," Max tells him, pouring a glass of wine. "I don't know if Piers ever told you about that. Dad couldn't cope with losing Mum, so he hanged himself. I… Well, I found his body."

Dean swallows dryly. Piers has never really mentioned it, except that Max, like Piers, is an orphan. He shakes his head.

"You get this look about you when you witness a tragedy," Max says. "It… I dunno how to explain it. But you disappeared for damn near a year, then you came back all different. It shows, but I never asked."

_Different. _Dean definitely feels different, though he had thought that maybe the changes weren't so obvious.

"Did the nightmares ever stop?" Dean asks.

Max laughs. The sound is dry and just a touch bitter. He lifts the glass to his lips, and Dean expects him to down it quickly. Instead, he takes a small, controlled sip. "That's the tricky part, isn't it? How do you make them stop?" He shakes his head. "Alcohol didn't help. Well… becoming numb was lovely, but the demons will always catch up to you. Same story with pills."

Dean shifts uncomfortably. He adores Max, but they aren't exactly close. As cool as Max may be, he is still Piers' guardian, and that comes with a certain dynamic.

"Therapy helped. I learned better coping mechanisms," Max continues.

Dean almost laughs. _Therapy. _There have been support groups pop up since the war. For the most part, they are short-lived. No one seems to know what to do with their grief. The pubs and bars are busier than ever, and they're all trying and still learning how to carry on.

"Well?" Max leans in, dark brows raising curiously. "Obviously, I'm no therapist, but I can listen. Sometimes that can help more than you even realize."

Dean opens his mouth. The words dance along his throat, lingering on the tip of his tongue. It would be so wonderful to tell someone how he feels, but Max doesn't know the truth about what he is. Dean still hasn't told Piers that he's a wizard; it's one tiny secret that he's kept, but he can feel the weight of it now.

"I lost someone," Dean says at last. That's a safe route to take. People lose loved ones every day. There's no need to talk about magic or wars. "He was…"

Dean considers for a moment, restlessly drumming his fingers against the table. He hadn't known Dirk or Ted for very long before losing them. Somehow, that doesn't seem to matter. He still feels their deaths, and it stays with him. Maybe it's the fact that they shared a common burden. Maybe it's that they looked at Dean and called him family and vowed to keep him safe. In the end, they had died to keep that vow.

"He was like a father to me."

He closes his eyes. He can still see Ted so clearly in his mind. Eyes bright and full of laughter. Cheeks rosy. Smile broad and friendly.

_"Dean, go! I'll hold them off!"_

_"I'm not leaving you!"_

_"Go! Now!"_

He takes a deep swig of vodka, tears streaming from his eyes. "I wanted to help him," he says. "I should have stayed and helped."

_"Griphook, get him out of here!"_

Another swallow. It doesn't kill the pain. He can still hear Ted's voice so clearly in his head, even though he has tried again and again to drown it out.

With a strangled sound, he pushes the bottle aside and hangs his head in shame. He never wanted to be like this, to be so broken and pitiful. Even George Weasley, after losing his twin, has managed to reopen the joke shop and wear a smile while greeting customers.

But Dean is like that too. He's wearing a mask and pretending to keep it together. Maybe he's falling apart now, but it's only because he's played the part and put on a brave face.

Maybe, just maybe, it's okay to let himself break down, to finally feel every ounce of pain that has been brewing within his mind. Maybe there's something healing in finally shattering, in remembering that he is not alone and other people feel this too.

"I'm not trying to pry," Max assures him.

Dean looks up and takes a deep breath. He shakes his head. "No. I think I'm ready."


End file.
